Aredhel's corset was too tight, she said. And when Fingon looked at his sister, he had to admit that she might have a point. How she was able to breathe in that thing was anyone's guess.
They were sitting, along with Turgon, Argon and their father, in the new locomotive. The new locomotive had wide windows framed by velvet curtains. The seats, too, were velvet-upholstered; deep blue. Fingolfin was thrilled with the new locomotive, which had so many cogs and pulleys that it was enough to make anybody's head spin, but Fingon privately missed the old one, with its moth-eaten seats and the sickly yellow strip-lighting set into its arced roof.
"I don't understand why we all had to come," went on Aredhel, "I doubt our uncle has any interest in seeing us. He hardly knows us."
It had been a long time since they had last seen Fingolfin's elder brother, Fëanor. The last time, he and his wife, Nerdanel, had visited them in their country house. Fingon had been young enough that he did not really remember it, now, but he knew it had not ended well. It seemed strange to him that Fëanor would make contact again now, after so long. What did he want? (Fingon tried not to second-guess him, but surely he must want something).
"He invited all of us," said Fingolfin, firmly, "So all of us shall go."
At any rate, it was too late now for any of them to opt to stay behind. They had almost reached the city.
The city. Fingon was not sure how he felt about the city. It was a strange, monochrome world after the greens and browns of the countryside. Grey spires pierced a white sky. Everyone dressed darkly so that the smog would not stain their clothes. An enormous clock-tower dominated the skyline, its luteous gold face providing a lone bolt of colour. There was something unsettling about the clock. His first impression was that it was watching him, but he dismissed the idea as madness.
Still, you could not deny that the city was majestic. There were locomotives everywhere, gleaming dully like armoured creatures from another world, raised up high on enormous, many-spoked wheels. The buildings burst with light. Here, steam-power was bowing out slowly but surely to something new: cybertechnology was on the rise. You could not be here, in this city, and be able to deny it.
Fingon glanced at Turgon, the brother who was closest to him in age, who was seated to his left. Turgon was looking out of the window. His mouth was an inscrutable line, but Fingon could see the awe in his eyes.
"What do you think?" Fingon asked him.
And Turgon, with a little shake of his head as though to rouse himself, replied; "I'm reserving judgement," but Fingon knew he was enchanted.
Eventually, the locomotive drew to a smooth stop – much smoother than the old one – and they heard Fingolfin's driver jump nimbly down onto the cobbles. The driver – a small, wiry man clad head-to-foot in black – first opened the door at Argon, Aredhel and Fingolfin's side, then hurried round to open the other door. They all piled out into the damp morning.
"Different sort of cold, here," Argon observed, "It clings, doesn't it?"
"It's all the moisture in the air," rejoined Turgon, "From people living at such close quarters, you see."
Fingon snorted. "These quarters don't look close to me," he said, looking at the street of grey-brick manor houses, each separated from the next by a wrought-iron fence. The largest, settled in a cul-de-sac, even had a bell-tower.
His father, having thanked the driver and come to join his children, laughed his quiet laugh. "Quite right," he agreed, "My brother has done well for himself, hasn't he? Shall we go in?"
And he set off towards the house with the bell-tower.
A woman opened the door. She was a servant in a prim, dark dress, with prim, dark hair pinned neatly back from her face. Her face did not register surprise or recognition or any other emotion, though Fingolfin seemed to know her.
"Hello, Alwen," he said crisply, "Fëanor is expecting us."
"Oh, I know," replied, Alwen. Then she blushed, catching herself, and dipped a hasty little curtsy. "I mean, er, of course – please come in, my Lord. You must all be very tired from such a long journey. I'll let Lord Fëanor know you're here."
She moved aside to admit them, and Fingon followed his father inside.
He was not sure what he had been expecting. Somewhere cool and dim, almost cave-like, perhaps. In fact, the anteroom was nothing short of magnificent. The floor was marble, and the ceiling was lit with a thousand tiny white lights, like stars. The effect was of an otherworldly place, sparse and airy. Fingon could not imagine anyone living here.
"You can wait in the drawing room, if you will," said the maid, Alwen, over her shoulder, as she led them up a winding staircase, "They'll be along soon, Lord Fëanor and the others."
"Others?" Fingolfin lifted his dark eyebrows quizzically, and the servant girl let out a nervous little laugh.
"Oh – you don't know, yet, do you?" she murmured, "Silly of me – I didn't realise. Well, I won't ruin the...surprise."
Something in her voice; in the way she said the word 'surprise' particularly, gave Fingon a vague but definite sense of foreboding.
The drawing room was a testament to an earlier time. Gas lamps burnt; their low naphtha hiss filled the air in the same constant way as a clock's ticking might. A mechanical lion, bronze and enormous, presided court over the empty armchairs dotted about. The furniture was rich, heavy oak, gleaming in the orange glow cast by the lamps. The curtains were drawn shut; they were thick, heavy velvet and did not let in any light. ("Lord Fëanor likes the atmosphere the lamplight makes," Alwen had said before she left them there, and Fingolfin had shaken his head knowingly).
Now they were waiting, in silence. Aredhel sat tense and straight-backed. Argon tapped his foot lightly on the carpeted floor. Turgon and their father both wore the same unreadable expression.
Then, there came the sound of footsteps. A moment later, Alwen stepped briskly inside.
"His Lordship Fëanor of House Finwë," she announced, "His wife, the Lady Nerdanel, and their sons: Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod and Amras."
"Sons - ?" Fingolfin spluttered, almost forgetting to stand on ceremony, his eyes widening in an expression that would have been almost comical, as Alwen backed out of the room. "What in the world - ?"
"Seven sons, if my count is correct," Turgon added in a bewildered undertone.
As far as any of them knew, Fëanor and Nerdanel did not have any children.
Then the door opened again – and in they all came.
Fëanor was first; impressive and dark, somehow broad and wiry at once. Beside him came his wife, red-haired Nerdanel, whose face was freckled and kind with clear blue-green eyes. And then; then came their alleged children; grown men, all of them. (How could such a thing be possible?)
The seven sons filed in, soldier-silent. Three were dark-haired, one was fair, and three had the same russet hair as Nerdanel. All were pale-skinned; lithe, with a certain etiolated beauty in their angular faces. They looked, Fingon thought, as though they had never seen the sun (which, living in this city of fog and smoke, would not in fact have been unlikely). They all moved quietly, sinuously, like cats.
"Nolofinwë," boomed Fëanor – for there really was no other word for it than boomed, decided Fingon - "How your children have grown! Your eldest was knee-high, the last time I saw you. Is life treating you well?"
Fingolfin's eyes were travelling over his putative nephews; he blinked once or twice as though in befuddlement and kneaded his brow.
"Sons – Fëanor," he muttered finally, "Ilúvatar... What - ? How have - ? Sons?"
Fëanor laughed heartily; Nerdanel arrowed a sharp, sideways glance at him.
"Yes, sons, brother," he nodded, "What do you think of them?"
It was such an odd question that for a moment Fingolfin seemed rendered speechless. "What do I – think of them?"
"Yes, yes, what do you think?" Fëanor sighed impatiently. "Have you ever seen such a perfect merging of nature with cybertechnology? These are my sons. Mine and my dearest Nerdanel's. I made them. Isn't it remarkable?"
He practically beamed with pride. Fingon let his eyes stray back to the seven sons. Most of them kept their faces carefully blank, but he was almost certain the tallest of them wore a slightly pained expression at Fëanor's words.
"You made..." comprehension dawned in Fingolfin's dark blue eyes, "Oh, Ilúvatar – cyborgs, Fëanor?"
Yes, Fingon decided, meeting the eyes of the tallest son, that was definitely a wince.
"Don't say that," Nerdanel spoke for the first time, "I know this is quite – unexpected for you, but have a care."
Fingolfin closed his eyes and then opened them again. He sighed deeply. "I'm sorry," he responded finally, "You're right, of course; that was insensitive of me. But...might I ask why, Fëanor?"
Fëanor lifted his massive shoulders in an unconcerned shrug. "They are going to retrieve the silmarils for me," he announced. The look that blazed in his eyes was almost like a physical force. "And I know they will do it. Their programming is perfect."
When Fingon emerged from his room, the tall son was waiting for him.
He was leaning against the wall, reading a book. It would have been easy, watching him avidly devour the words, to forget what he was. Even in the gloomy daylight, his hair looked molten.
"Sorry about the welcome you received," he snapped his books shut and looked at Fingon. "Sometimes my father has so little regard for other people. All he is interested in is showing off his creations."
Fingon felt his face warm. "You are not creations, as you put it," he replied with a tightness that reminded him of his own father when something stirred his ire.
The other man's lips twitched. "Technically, we're all creations; you included," he gave a soft laugh, "But my brothers and I are instruments. Perhaps that isn't a pleasant thing to realise, but it's true. I have always known it."
"Always? How long is 'always'?"
"Oh, a matter of weeks, but it feels like so much longer. Years of false memories packed into the programming, you see. Did you know, we've met before?" His voice was dry, almost amused, but his expression was intent.
Fingon raised a brow. "Have we?"
"Yes, a long time ago, when we were both children. I remember it well."
"Well, I don't, of course. Perhaps you could tell me the story someday."
There was a long pause, in which Fingon's cousin looked at him.
"I will one day," he agreed, "But we ought to go and find the others, now."
Fingon nodded distractedly, but stayed where he was. The other pushed off from the wall, standing straight (he really did have very long legs; he was even taller than Turgon). He began to walk away.
"Wait," Fingon fell into step beside him, "Which one are you?"
Another of those small, close-mouthed smiles. As thought it was a secret he was about to share.
"Maedhros," he said.